


Flesh

by M (timetomeetthedevil)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Worship, Feeding, Frottage, M/M, Sassy Will, Stuffing, Weight Gain, daddy tummy, sassy will is standard will rly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetomeetthedevil/pseuds/M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently temporarily bored of reshaping Will's mind, Hannibal decides to reshape his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bacchus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikksmadelsen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mikksmadelsen).



> This chapter is mostly a backstory/tease/lead-in before the kink shit goes down in the next.
> 
> I've never written fanfiction before so I apologise for in advance. Concrit welcome.

                A victim, in the original sense, was an animal sacrificed to a deity. A beast without blemish carefully selected, slaughtered and offered to the gods, either because their gifts were desired or their wrath was feared. The rituals were many, but the most common seems to have been a communal feast – the edible parts of the animal being consumed by the supplicants, the inedible part burned to form the god’s share.

                This could be why Hannibal Lecter, a man careful in his use of words, does not label the people he kills as his _victims_. He is not a supplicant; he is God – at least for the purposes of this metaphor. Accordingly, they are not prized animals shared with the community to honour their sanctity of life. They are sinners, rank in their impenitence, and where their offerings do not sustain him, their flesh must. They are not transmuted into something finer; they are simply debased, humiliated, cast down. Not for justice. Only for his pleasure.

                And yet.

                When his fingers slide over and around Will’s side, the new flesh he finds there stirs unexpected feelings. To develop them further, he slips his hand under the other man’s t-shirt and presses his palm against his belly, feeling the increased distance between his skin and the muscle beneath. Hannibal relaxes his hand and a soft swell comes up to meet the curve of his palm. He gives it a slight squeeze, but there really isn’t much. More than before, but not much. No, it’s much better to go back to feeling it with the whole of his palm, just resting it gently over Will’s belly so not to wake him.

                Transmutation. The repurposing of all those boorish animals’ essential organs into this soft, erotic swell.

                For all his insight into the workings of the mind, Hannibal doesn’t apply them to himself. It’s far too dull, as he knows all the tricks, uses them every day on the tedious cases of social anxiety and compulsive behaviour that shuffle through his waiting room. In his private life, he’s a libertine, an explorer of the senses. So he doesn’t think about why this development is arousing for him. He simply decides to delve a bit. Sift the waters. See what turns up.

                Certainly, Hannibal enjoys rich food and refuses to substitute any ingredient for the sake of something as banal as caloric content. Taste is paramount and like the famous gluttons of Rome, he spares no expense in the pursuit of it. While moderation and exercise may do their part, age and good eating have given him a body that could be described as _stately_. He takes up a perfectly noble amount of space, neither shrinking nor overbearing. It’s a body that’s good for any task he puts it too.

                It’s excellent at fucking Will.

                Will’s body is excellent at moving under him, a well-built and quietly masculine form for him to rut against. More than penetrating him, he enjoys thrusting between the younger man’s slick, well-turned thighs, gratifying himself with the feeling of skin and muscles and sinew. It’s Will’s flesh he desires, more than any pressure or warmth offered by some mundane orifice. To bear down on man, to press his bulk into him, to play upon him like an instrument and listen to the noise he produces has been exquisite.

                But there’s always room for improvement.

                Will’s is a practical sort of body, one of a country boy adaptable to urban life. Spare but not scrawny, it has excellent muscle tone. Healthy enough and yet an air of past privation still clings to it. Too many flat planes and harsh lines. Nothing flashy, nothing superfluous. He only carries what he needs.

                What could Hannibal make of this body?

                In the morning, after Will has left, he takes up the figurine of Michelangelo’s _Bacchus_ that stands tottering drunkenly amongst his cupboards. Vasari described it as possessing “both the slenderness of a young man and the fleshiness and roundness of a woman,” the soft, bulging form suggesting the voluptuousness, excess and the fecundity of the harvest. Passing his thumb over the figure’s swollen belly, he places it back on the shelf, nudging it carefully back into its former place.

                He is committed to doing some sculpting of his own.


	2. La Chasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal begins his new endeavor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the lack of smut in this chapter, but it seems to take Hannibal and Will a very long time to do anything. NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE OKAY. I hope you still enjoy it and aren't getting too annoyed with my carrying on. 
> 
> On the plus side, I do have an idea for a one-off total PWP in the feeding vein, for those who would prefer that, so I'll get to work on that as well.

For a gourmand, Hannibal doesn’t typically keep a very well stocked freezer. Aside from it not being very prudent to keep evidence lying about, the taste of frozen meat is far inferior to that of fresh. Even Will’s palette could distinguish the difference – which means it’s time to go shopping.

After cross-referencing his rolodex with his recipes, the real work begins. All goes smoothly, as it always does for a skilled hunter, and he comes up with a brace of bodies. From the one, he takes offal, the ‘surgical trophies’ which disguise his true purpose. However, the other, a vulgar paleo-vegan who made a point of shaming his partner’s dietary choices loudly and at length at a fundraising gala, is taken home to be butchered completely.

Grass-fed meat really _is_ much more flavourful. How could he resist the chance to stock up?

\--

                Will’s eyes shift towards the door. “Is someone else coming?”

                Hannibal does not even attempt to hide his grin as he sets down the last platter. “I would never ambush you with a dinner party, Will.”

By way of a response, Will unfurls his napkin and sets it on his lap, keeping his eyes on the other man as he sits down. Hannibal notices that Will holds his fork with the tines pointed down, an obvious affectation by an American of working class origins. He also notices the persistent air of questioning in his eyes, a sardonic and stabbing sort of stare that he’s become quite familiar with.

                “A feast does not require an occasion,” he says, “or much company.”

The other man can never hold up eye contact for long. Down those blue eyes go, darting between the various platters covering the table. Will is used to Hannibal bringing out two perfectly presented plates from the kitchen when they dine together. This buffet-style serving (he’s sure that’s not the proper term) is disconcerting; he’s afraid to make some sort of faux pas by scooping something up and plopping it on his plate as if this were an awkward family Thanksgiving.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, Will’s discomfort, Hannibal looks perfectly at ease, holding his glass up to admire the colour of the wine in the firelight. “Service à la franchise is not considered ideal when performed by a single chef. Unless you know what you’re doing.”

Ah, Will thinks, so there’s the proper term. “It’s a bit extravagant.”

Hannibal smiles faintly into his wineglass. “Extravagance is only a sin when it is meant to overawe. I assure you that was not my intention. This is hospitality. No one is forced to eat what one dislikes like and one can have what one likes in whatever quantity one desires.”

There was more than enough time for Will to fill his plate during the course of this little speech and he now scoffs around a morsel of meat. “That may not always be good.”

                “Why?”

Hannibal says this with such convincing earnestness that Will stops mid-slice, looking at the other man with the rim of his glasses cut across his eyes. It’s an ineffective shield, especially against the psychiatrist. With a sigh and a slumping of his shoulders, he composes an answer.

                “I have enough trouble keeping weight off eating your little dinner sculptures, never mind your all-you-can eat buffets.”

Hannibal assumes an expression somewhere between a statue and a monitor lizard, which Will likes to think arises when he manages to confuse him. It’s a very satisfying expression. However, when it goes on too long, he feels the need to make an amendment.

                “I meant it as a compliment.”

A silence, lightened by a rising of Hannibal’s brow and the clinking of cutlery.  “But is it so bad?”

                “No, I- your food is very good.”

                “I meant gaining weight.”

Again, Will is arrested mid-motion, wrists turned in and elbows out like a startled bird. He does manage a slight eye-roll.  “Well, _typically_.”

                “Oh, well, we want to be typical.” Hannibal finds Will’s gaze pointedly, his lips curling in a slow smirk. “You are fit, yes? You are able to do your job without getting winded or unduly tired?” No response. He didn’t expect one. “Weight gain does nothing to detract from that, considering that you keep up your previous activity level and muscle mass. It simply adds an extra layer.”

                “If it keeps up, it might force me to buy new pants.”

                “Yet another positive.”

This finally earns a laugh from Will and he is so glad to hear it. Laughter disarms Will, makes him apt to speak without prompting and prodding. With a grin, Hannibal tilts his head, playing the coquette, waiting.

                “You say another positive. You still haven’t given me the first.”

Hannibal toys with simply saying _Because I find it arousing_ and enjoying the face he imagines Will would make, but it would be a cheap thrill. “I find the act of nourishing you enjoyable. To see physical evidence of the healthful effect my cooking has had on your body is deeply pleasurable to me.” Hannibal’s cock seems to twitch as he says it, but that is not enough. His body urges his mind to continue, embroider on his desires. “The connection between food and sex is a plain one. Both sensual pleasures, both sinful. Food acts upon the body, upon the mind, upon the blood. It enters into a person in a way another person can’t, but perhaps wishes to.”

Will is trying so hard to look jaded, but the color blooming in his cheeks gives him away. “And do you wish to?”

                “I enjoy dining with you.”

There’s that stare again. That violent gaze. “God forbid you even give a straight, yes-or-no answer to a question.” Oh, how Hannibal wishes he could draw out that gaze. Darken it, intensify it, as he might do with a portrait, just a touch more pressure upon the pencil -- but that’s another project entirely.

                “Ask me a decent question and I might.”

Will looks as if he finds this a difficult undertaking, hesitating with adolescent shyness mingled with adult interest. “What do you want?”

                “Oh, good Will,” Hannibal says, holding back a pleasured hiss, “that is a decent question with an indecent answer.”


	3. A Surfeit of Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal gets down to business. Will is sassy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY ARE GOING TO HUMP IN THE NEXT CHAPTER OKAY I'm writing it right now. This fic has just really turned out to be longer than I thought.
> 
> This the feeding chapter however, so enjoy. :D

                “Eat your dinner.”

Will does not consider this to qualify as a straight or an indecent answer, but knows it’s no use pressing the point. Hannibal, for his part, appears to be willing to spend the rest of the meal in companionable silence, something Will appreciates very much. It’s not until Will has finished his plate and begun to idly fiddle with the stem of his glass as it rests on the table that anyone speaks.

                “Is that all you are going to eat?” Hannibal asks. Will only raises an eyebrow in response, because he can never simply be easy and pliant and agreeable. Oh, how Hannibal likes that inability in him. “You didn’t even touch the majority of the dishes.”

                “Isn’t the charm of service à la franchise is that no one has to eat what they dislike?”

                “Begging your pardon, but I don’t believe you are familiar enough with much of what I prepared to know if you dislike it or not.” Will appears to go on his guard, something Hannibal finds precious enough to smile at. “Do you ever overindulge, Will?”

                “I never had much of a chance to.”

                “Of course, as a child. You are a man now, living in more comfortable circumstances than your father.”

                “Are we _really_ discussing this?” Will says, retreating back into that drawl he responded with in each of the first fifty or so conversations he and Hannibal had, aggression tempered by affected boredom.

                “No. We are not.” Hannibal gives a shrug, easy and grand, like all of his gestures. “I wasn’t trying to draw you out. Rather, I wanted to encourage you to relax.”

                “You are terrible at relaxing me.”

                “Even in bed?”

It seems strange to hear Hannibal say something so uncouth in such setting. Will keeps his eyes firmly on his empty plate until he looks up in surprise when Hannibal gets up and comes to join him on his side of the table, effortlessly moving a chair close to Will’s. “I would appreciate if you would at least try this,” he says, moving a small lump of food from a platter onto Will’s plate. “Sweetbreads Grenobloise – in a sauce of browned butter, capers, parsley, and lemon.”

Will chews thoughtfully. “I can’t properly describe what it tastes like. The texture is--…well, it’s very good, anyway.

At this, Hannibal moves the contents of the platter onto Will’s plate. It isn’t a terribly large amount, what with human thymus glands being smallish and him only having the two on hand. Of course, Will feels obligated to eat it, although Hannibal helps a bit. He can’t let the other man have all the fun, after all.

After moving through a few more samples, Will shifts in his seat discreetly, sliding his hips forward to try to elevate some of the discomfort settling in his abdomen. He nudges his plate away from him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to take the hint. Or rather, he takes it and throws it away, tut-tuting as he moves on to the next dish.

                “No, thank you.”

                “Does it not look appetizing to you?”

                “It looks very nice,” he says, with just a breath of annoyance, “but I’m not hungry.”

                “Neither am I. We are civilized and sophisticated men, past the point of simple, physical sustenance. This is pleasure, sustenance of the senses, medicine for the modern world.” Hannibal picks up a small, thick slice of meat with his fingers and brings it to do Will’s mouth. Shocked, the other man cannot do but to take it between his teeth, feeling a swipe of Hannibal’s thumb over his lips. “Please, oblige me.”

                With an unnameable but not altogether unfamiliar feeling settling in the base of his spine, Will takes up his fork again and begins to eat, although he can’t bring himself to have much enthusiasm, his appetite already well-sated. And when Hannibal turns in his seat and slides his hand over Will’s stomach, he stops completely, shrinking from the touch.

                “Will,” Hannibal says gently, “are you embarrassed?”

                “I don’t know what you’re doing.” It’s an answer; his embarrassment is evident in the pressure of his voice, the flustered air of his posture.

                “I’m touching you, just as I’ve done before. In more typical contexts, of course, but my intentions and feelings are the same.” Leaning ever closer, he presses a kiss to Will’s neck, the other man shivering just before contact is made. “What a beautifully sensitive instrument your body is, Will. It anticipates my every caress and responds so sublimely.” Will’s nerves are indeed singing; without turning to glance at the doctor’s face, he can sense what he’s feeling, absorbing it through the barely trembling tautness of the body next to him, the pace and urgency of the breath against his skin. He has never known Hannibal to be so aroused, not even in the throes of their passion in his bed, when he kisses and grasps Will the way no woman ever has. It might seem obscene to Will’s ordinary values, his sense of decency, but at feeling Hannibal’s arousal so close and so acutely, he can’t help but feel it for himself.

He tentatively takes another bite and the sound Hannibal makes against the space behind his ear is all the positive reinforcement he needs to resume eating. The way Hannibal is touching him, dragging his lips over his neck and nuzzling his jaw, the sighs and whispered moans…well, he’d do anything to keep that coming. It’s only when he feels Hannibal tug at the fly of his trousers that he pauses again.

                “Hannibal—”

                “We’re alone.” He undoes the other man’s pants regardless of protest, slipping his hand under the fabric of his shirt, measuring the increased curve of Will’s belly with his palm. “That couldn’t have been comfortable, given the circumstances. Often, we must suffer discomfort or worse for the cause of politeness, but that is the charm of intimate relationships. We can behave according to our natures and our bodies can be at ease, unbound.” He rubs as Will’s stomach, the feeling of that firm roundness sending a surge of blood to his cock. He’d love to undress Will and appease his eyes as well as his fingers, but not yet. Patience is a virtue and one that does great service to vice. Instead, he urges Will on with a nuzzle, breathing in his scent deeply as he speaks lowly to Will, aware of the effect his voice can have. “Cleanse you mind of banal thoughts of propriety and society. It is just us. Concentrate on my hand and lips on your skin, on the food in your mouth. Savour it.  Revel in it. Let it fill you completely.”

Will closes his eyes and chews, any residual self-conscious he felt melting away. There is only sensation, sweet, savoury, acidic, heat, whispers of skin against skin. The colours of the impressions flitting through his mind bleed into reality once he opens his eyes again. All seems as lush and oversaturated as a freshly restored oil painting, the full blown flowers of the centrepiece seeming to moan with beauty. The flesh of fruit and that of beast glisten on his plate and meld effortlessly on his palette. Hannibal feeds him, Will feeds himself, Hannibal snatches away morsels before they can reach Will’s mouth, kisses and bites blending together in an orgy of pleasure. This cannot be happening to Will. Will does not experience the world is such a way. Does Hannibal? Is this what Hannibal always sees?

It is only a sharp spasm of pain that makes him stop, brings him back into his body. He may have made some noise, as Hannibal is shushing him. “Shhh, it’s all right.” He places the knife and fork precisely parallel to each other in the centre of the plate. “You don’t want to make yourself sick.” Will feels flushed, slow, a little peculiar and as such allows himself to be managed like a child, standing when Hannibal urges him upwards. Will sways, his centre of gravity having shifted to a place it takes him a second to find. There is something slightly alien about his body and he notes that his pants, although still unfastened, stay up of their own accord, the slack taken up by the swell of his abdomen. He places his hand on it and lets out a small whimper of surprise.

                “Come now,” Hannibal says, his hand insistent at the small of Will’s back. “We’ll go upstairs.”

\--

Upstairs always implies the bedroom, the large and minimally furnished space where Hannibal reposes in luxury. Since the first time he was invited to share it, Will has wondered how the doctor can content himself with the stiff, foam mattresses and stained carpets of the motels they’ve been lodged in during cases. Now, though, his only concern is lying on that perfectly comfortable bed and trying to find a comfortable position. There isn’t one, so he settles on his side as it seems best.

Although Hannibal had made sure Will had the greater share of the feast, he had overeaten himself as well, never content to only be a spectator an episode of debauchery. His waistcoat is holding him too tightly around the middle and that quite ascetically displeasing gap between the bottom of the vest and the top of his trousers has widened. No matter; the thing is easily managed. Stepping over to his armoire, he hangs up his jacket and removes his waistcoat and shirt, the former going back on its hanger and the later going into the laundry bin. Shoes, socks and trousers follow. He dislikes being the least dressed person in any room, so he puts on a set of pyjamas before sitting on the edge of the mattress and peering over at Will.

Many chemical changes take place in the body after an exceptionally large meal, most notably increased insulin production and a flood of dopamine comparable to that usually related to sex or drug use. The scent rising up off of Will as his body thrums silently is subtly different – an increased heat and urgency as his overtaxed systems thrum away silently, mingling with the fermentation-like musk of digestion. But that is simply one note in the beautiful composition of this moment and far from the sweetest.

Will lies with his hand just skirting the top of his stomach, as if wary of exploring further. While those horrid flannel shirts he wears have enough fabric to accommodate all of Will and half of another person, Hannibal can at least see the outline of his belly as it rises and falls in small, measured breaths.

                “How are you feeling, Will?”

                “Uncomfortable.”

 Hannibal shifts closer, softly, ever-so-carefully, like a cat hoping to catch a moth. “Let me help you.”

Another urgent noise as Hannibal sets his hand on Will’s stomach, which is smoothes away with a shush as he begins to rub in gentle, soothing circles. Under that thin layer of soft insulation, Will’s abdomen feels taut as a balloon. He lets out a half-swallowed moan at the touch, fidgeting in discomfort.

                “Relax,” Hannibal murmurs, nestling again him close enough so that his own belly presses up against the small of Will’s back and his burgeoning erection to his hips. Only then does the younger man go still.

                “Are you…aroused?”

Hannibal answers against Will’s shoulder. “What did you think all this was in service of? When I spoke of link between food and sex?”

                “Well. You tend to talk a lot of shit.”

 _Oh, so you think, good Will, so you think._ With a smirk, Hannibal simply waits for the next observation.

                “It seems a bit…animalistic for your tastes. Unrefined.”

                “I am simply an animal like everyone else.” The edge of a tooth presses into the skin on the nape of Will’s neck. “In the primitive time we live in, only the man who indulges his animal desires is truly refined. He knows pleasure in its true form.” His hand slides up Will’s stomach feeling its new profile and taking his shirt up along with it. “Like an animal, I have no further desire to speak.”


End file.
